


Don't Touch Me

by Sohotthateveryonedied



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Because it's me, Brother Feels, Bruce Wayne is a Good Parent, But different, Family Feels, Fluff and Angst, Forced Proximity, Gen, He's Trying His Best Okay, Hurt Tim Drake, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Hurting My Characters, Jason Todd Has a Heart, No Romance, Pain, Platonic Relationships, Poison Ivy - Freeform, Pre-New 52, Some Humor, Tim Drake Whump, What else is new, and this is my spin on it, because for some reason I only see those in the voltron fandom, but not with Tim's family, love bug au, okay well some
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-08
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:23:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22620157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sohotthateveryonedied/pseuds/Sohotthateveryonedied
Summary: “Are you guys okay? What’s going on?”Jason grunts.“It was a trap. We—goddamn it.”Some muffled cursing.“Red, you’re okay, calm down.”Too many scenarios run through Bruce’s head. He’s never heard Tim scream like this before.“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,”Jason says.“Some kind of pollen—he breathed it in and now I don’t know what to do. Get the fuck over here!”
Relationships: Cassandra Cain & Tim Drake, Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Jason Todd
Comments: 112
Kudos: 1505
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look, I've seen this concept so many times but only in the Voltron fandom, so I decided to take one for the team and change that.
> 
> ...Even though it's super different and has barely any similarities, but whatever. Platonic family feels is what you get. Enjoy!

“Knock it off.”  
  
“I’m not doing anything.”   
  
“Knock it _off.”_   
  
“I’m not _doing anything.”_ Completely going against his own point, Jason knocks Tim with his elbow. Not hard enough to hurt, but enough that Tim wants to chop Jason into tiny pieces, stuff all of those pieces into an assortment of empty jelly jars, and store them in the freezer for eternity like Walt Disney.   
  
If you asked him a week ago—hell, an _hour_ ago—Tim would have said that the northwest sitting room was his third favorite place in Wayne Manor. (Directly after his own bedroom and Bruce’s study, of course.) He should have known that nothing in life is sacred when one is cursed with brothers.   
  
He and Jason are sitting on the sofa—on the very _wide_ sofa, mind you—and rather than sitting at the other end and going about his business like any normal person would, Jason fixed himself right next to Tim and stayed there. Like a jackass.   
  
Tim _was_ planning to video chat with Bart, but now that Jason is propped against him, looking over Tim’s shoulder like he has nothing else in the world to do, that plan has been derailed.   
  
“You’re touching me,” he snaps.   
  
“I’m literally just sitting here, going about my own business.” He waves his fishing magazine in Tim’s face. Jason doesn’t even _like_ fishing.   
  
“Yeah. _While_ you’re touching me.” He gestures to Jason’s elbow, which grazes Tim’s ribs every time he breathes.   
  
“Well damn, Tim, I’m sorry I was born with _limbs._ My bad.”   
  
Tim shoves him. If only Jason weren’t composed of two hundred and twenty-five pounds of muscle and concrete, because he doesn’t budge in the slightest. Tim is pretty sure he just dislocated his shoulder attempting it. “Can you _please_ just move to your side of the couch, asshole?”   
  
“I live here too, _asshole,_ and I have just as much a right to sit here as you do.”   
  
“I am giving you both ten seconds to shut up,” Damian announces from his spot on the rug, where he has endured Jason and Tim’s bickering whilst he sketches a sleeping Titus in front of the cold fireplace.   
  
“He started it!” Tim says.   
  
“Five seconds.”   
  
“You’re the one being a jerk,” Jason tells Tim. “I’m trying to hang out with you, and you’re being an ungrateful little bitch about it.”   
  
“Because you’re touching me!”   
  
“Are you five years old?”   
  
“All I’m asking for is some personal space.”   
  
“You let _Dick_ cuddle you and shit, but I’m not allowed to sit within ten feet of you without you getting all pissy?” He pokes Tim in the arm.   
  
“I’m not pissy, I’m _annoyed.”_   
  
Jason pokes him again. “Same thing.”   
  
And Tim _knows_ Jason is doing this on purpose. One hundred percent. He’s bored and has nothing better to do, so he’s bothering Tim to get a rise out of him. But that doesn’t mean Tim needs to rise to the bait. He can be a mature adult. “Please move.”   
  
“Make me.”   
  
_“Move.”_   
  
“You don’t have to have such an attitude, you know.” Jason goes to poke Tim again.   
  
If this is bait, then Tim is a big ol’ tuna. For in a flash of movement he’s snatched Jason’s wrist in one hand, gripping it in a hold where he knows he could easily snap the bone with a flick of his ring finger. Bruce taught him this one during his first week of Robin training. “Don’t. _Touch._ Me.”   
  
“Fuck, ow! Let go!” Tim releases him, and Jason pulls his arm back like Tim’s made of lit charcoal. “What the hell, man?”   
  
“He did warn you,” Damian chimes.   
  
Tim could have gone anywhere after his dad died. Moved to Star City. Gotten adopted by the Kents. Called up Danny the Street and had them pick Tim up for a lifetime of gay adventure.   
  
But no. Instead, he chose to have brothers. What a fool.   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Emotionally, Bruce Thomas Wayne is on a white sand beach and drinking a fruity, preferably alcoholic beverage by the seaside. He is whittling a fork in a quiet cabin that smells of mahogany and woodsmoke. If he closes his eyes, he can feel a massage chair vibrating against his back, kneading sore muscles while Bruce dozes during a pedicure.   
  
All is peaceful.   
  
All is good.   
  
_“For the last time, Hood, I don’t_ care _that you’re an orphan. We’re all orphans!”_   
  
Bruce sighs. He could be enjoying any number of relaxing activities right now, but instead he is patrolling with his beautiful, amazing, _dumbass_ kids. Don’t get him wrong—he loves them all to pieces. But it’s like when your dog pees on the carpet one too many times, and at that point it’s hard not to harbor resentment.   
  
Each of Bruce’s children is a sweet puggle, and they are pissing all over his rug.   
  
“Boys,” he barks through the comm link. “Stop arguing or you’re grounded.”   
  
_“Ground_ Jason. _He’s the one being a jerk about this.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“You tried to snap my arm in half! You’re lucky I’m nice or I’d have sued your ass.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Yeah, well, you shot me once. Consider us even.”_   
  
Bruce looks over to Dick, silently begging for help. Dick has been listening in on the conversation as well, since it’s not like there is anything else to do during what is slowly turning out to be a pointless stakeout. Only difference between him and Bruce is that Dick is balancing on his hands at the rooftop’s edge like he thinks he’s some Evel Knievel prodigy.   
  
Which...he is. But that doesn’t spare Bruce from having fifty separate heart attacks every time his legs so much as wobble.   
  
“Make them stop,” Bruce pleads.   
  
“Shrug emoji.”   
  
“That was not helpful. In fact, it was _less_ than unhelpful. You have given me negative helpfulness.”   
  
Dick ignores him. “What did you even do?” he asks the pair on the other end of the comm link.   
  
_“I didn’t do anything!”_ Tim says.   
  
_“You freaked out when I barely touched you.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Yeah, after telling you_ multiple times _to cut it out.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“Is it so wrong to want to be in the same room as my own brother these days?”_ It comes out as a whine, but Bruce doesn’t speak up about the truth lying beneath Jason’s facade. That he knows exactly what Jason is thinking because he _raised_ this man, for Christ’s sake. For being the lone wolf of the family, Jason doesn’t do well with rejection.   
  
_“I don’t care if you want to hang out with me,”_ Tim says. _“I care that you don’t respect other people’s boundaries.”_   
  
_“You’re being such a hypocrite! Dick does this all the time, but you_ never _get mad at him for it.”_   
  
“In all fairness,” Dick says, “I learned early on that Tim wasn’t always okay with being touched, so I dialed it back. I usually ask before hugging him and give him space when he needs it.” _  
_ _  
_ _“See?”_ Tim says. _“Common courtesy.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Jason makes a sound like a pissed-off bull. _“Yippee, we’re catering to Tim’s antisocial tendencies now. That’s the way to do things.”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“I’m plenty social! Is it so wrong to want some personal space once in a while?”_ _  
_ _  
_ _“It is when you’re being a privileged asshole about it.”_ _  
_ _  
_ “Boys,” Bruce grounds out again, massaging his throbbing temples through the leather of his cowl. “Save the bickering for later. Preferably when I’m asleep.”   
  
They stop, but whether that’s because they respect him or because they are too busy making rude faces and gestures at each other is up for debate. He’s choosing to take the win for what it is. “Have you reached the building yet?”   
  
Red Hood and Red Robin are _supposed_ to be checking out a fire site from earlier today. A quarter past noon, the fire alarm went off in the Gotham branch of Dayton Industries. The cops and firemen deemed it petty arson and let the matter go, seeing as there was little damage and no one was harmed. But there were eyewitness accounts of Poison Ivy having been in the area around the same time.   
  
The Reds are going to check it out and see if Bruce’s hunch is right, and Ivy really was involved. Though in hindsight, he should have sent Cass to do it instead. God knows she’d at least do it _quietly._   
  
“Why would Ivy want to set an office building on fire anyway?” Dick asks. “Seems pretty out of character for her.”   
  
“Have you heard about the forest fire at Robinson Park? It hasn’t been proven, but rumor has it that Dayton Industries wants to use the land for a new facility. My guess is Ivy wants revenge.”   
  
_“We’re here,”_ Tim reports, _“but I don’t know what we’re supposed to be looking for.”_   
  
“Anything you think is suspicious.”   
  
_“Oh boy,”_ Jason says, _“we get to search for some leaves and twigs. What an honor.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Tim ignores him. _“We already know the fire started at the west end of the ground floor, but it doesn’t look like anything else was touched. There’s not a lot of damage here, honestly.”_   
  
Something crashes; probably Jason knocking something over. _“If it really was Ivy, wouldn’t she have started the fire closer to where all the important shit is kept? Computer systems, data, filing cabinets; messing with those would have dealt a way bigger blow than sending a bunch of office workers outside to play Desert Island for a couple hours.”_ _  
_ _  
_ “Keep looking,” Bruce says. Dick wobbles in his handstand, but quickly rights himself. “And would you stop that? You’re going to kill yourself.”   
  
“I’m an acrobat. I think I can handle a little danger.”   
  
“Then when you fall off the building, don’t count on me diving to catch you.”   
  
Dick laughs. “Yeah, right. Admit it, B, you love me too much to let me die a splatter-y death.”   
  
“False. I hate all of you equally.”   
  
“I don’t know,” Dick says. “Sounds like a dad in denial to me.”   
  
“You’re being unprofessional.”   
  
“Says the man dressed in a leather fursuit.”   
  
“For the last time, _stop_ calling it a—” _  
_ _  
_ _“Shit, shit, fuck, shit,”_ Jason hisses through the comm link, instantly setting Bruce on red alert.   
  
The argument with Dick is forgotten as Bruce touches his earpiece. “Hood, what happened?”   
  
_“We need backup, B.”_   
  
“Is it Ivy?”   
  
_“No.”_   
  
That’s when Bruce hears it. It was so distant at first, he thought it was the squeal of radio feedback. The noise is muffled through Jason’s helmet, but there is no mistaking the bloodcurdling screams echoing off the walls of the building they’re in.   
  
Tim.   
  
Dick topples forward out of his handstand and presses a frantic finger to his own earpiece. “Are you guys okay? What’s going on?”   
  
Jason grunts. _“It was a trap. We—goddamn it.”_ Some muffled cursing. _“Red, you’re okay, calm down.”_ Too many scenarios run through Bruce’s head. He’s never heard Tim scream like this before. _“I don’t know what’s wrong with him,”_ Jason says. _“Some kind of pollen—he breathed it in and now I don’t know what to do. Get the fuck over here!”_ _  
_ _  
_ They don’t need to be told twice. Dick leaps from the rooftop, grappling in the direction of the address with Bruce close behind. “Batman and Nightwing, on our way,” Bruce reports.   
  
_“No, B,”_ Dick says, already too far away to be heard up close. _“We need you back at the cave. We don’t know what he’s been hit with, so prepare any tests and antidotes we have on hand. We’ll meet you there.”_ _  
_ _  
_ Bruce wants to say no. He wants to pull rank and find Tim himself, make sure _he_ is the one keeping his son safe. He doesn’t want to go back home and wait to find out if Tim dies on arrival or not.   
  
He wants to object. But he doesn’t. “I’m sending the Batmobile your way. Get home as soon as possible and keep me updated.”   
  
_“You got it,”_ Dick says.   
  
Tim just screams. 

* * *

Bruce hates being first to arrive. It gives him too much time alone to think.   
  
In the span of a few minutes, Bruce has endured a dozen lifetimes’ worth of heartwrenching scenarios, each one worse than the last: Tim, dead on arrival. Tim, infected with some fatal disease Ivy spawned that has no cure. Tim hurt, Tim suffering, Tim dying, Tim _dead._   
  
When Bruce is sure his blood is going to start bursting from his arteries like water balloons hurled at a brick wall, the sound of tires screeching against metal resonates between the Batcave’s stone walls. Something digs in and hollows out a worry-shaped hole in Bruce’s chest when he realizes that the tires aren’t the only ones screeching.   
  
Jason is carrying Tim, whose screams slice through the air and send shivers down Bruce’s spine. It sounds like he’s being _tortured._ Dick runs ahead of them toward the med bay section of the cave, and Bruce grabs his arm.   
  
“What happened out there?” He has to raise his voice just to be heard over Tim’s wails.   
  
“Goddamn _fucking_ Ivy,” Jason spits. He lays Tim on the cot just as Cass comes running down the stairs. She must have heard the screams all the way from the manor.   
  
“What happened?” Her eyes land on Tim and widen. “Is he...okay?”   
  
“We don’t know yet,” Dick tells her.   
  
Bruce goes to Tim and checks him over for wounds, but he finds nothing. No blood, no breaks, and his suit is fully intact. “Tim? Tim, look at me. Tell me what’s wrong.”   
  
Teary blue eyes open, edges creased with pain. “Hurts,” he forces out.   
  
“Where? What hurts?”   
  
_“Everywhere._ It— _fuck._ ” His head falls back to the cot and he bites his lip until blood beads up and sticks to his teeth. “Just knock me out, if you wouldn’t—wouldn’t mind.”   
  
“Dick, get me a sedative,” Bruce says. He’s surprised Tim hasn’t passed out already.   
  
“It won’t work,” Dick says. “We gave him morphine in the car and it did nothing. I tried everything I could think of, but none of it had any effect.”   
  
Damn it. Bruce wheels to face Jason. “Tell me _exactly_ what happened,” he snarls, letting the Batman gravel seep into his voice.   
  
Jason has removed his helmet and can no longer conceal the way his forehead creases with panic. “Ivy rigged a trap for us. She must have known we would come to investigate. Then _that_ dumbass hit the trip wire. My helmet filtered out the pollen, but…” His mouth tightens when Tim lets out another pained groan. “Next thing I knew, the kid was on the floor wailing like he was getting his leg sawed off.”   
  
“Isn’t there...an antidote?” Cass asks. She’s holding one of Tim’s gloved hands in both of her own. He’s practically breaking her fingers, but she doesn’t mention it.   
  
“I don’t know,” Bruce says. “I’ve never encountered anything like this before.”   
  
“Is it some kind of...I don’t know, aerosolic disease?” Dick tries. “Maybe she’s trying to weaponize The Clench like Ra’s did.”   
  
“If it were, he’d be dead already after such a concentrated dose.”   
  
“I’d be happy to knock him out the old fashion way,” Jason chimes in.   
  
Bruce ignores him and goes to the Batcomputer, Dick on his heels. “You said the trap was already set up before you got there?”   
  
“Duh,” Jason says. “She must have done it while she was setting the fire.”   
  
“Then it wasn’t for you.” He pulls up Ivy’s file.   
  
Dick catches on fast. “She was targeting the _workers._ The fire was just a cover so she’d have the opportunity to set the pollen up.”   
  
Jason crosses his arms. “So she just wanted to hurt a bunch of corporate assholes for killing her precious flowers?”   
  
“It makes sense,” Bruce says. “They burned her plants, so she wanted to make them hurt too. Tim was just a misfire.”   
  
“Does that mean it’ll wear off?” Dick asks hopefully.   
  
“Ivy doesn’t exactly seem like the merciful type. And most of her experiments don’t wear off so easily without a cure.”   
  
“Again, totally up for knocking the kid out,” Jason says.   
  
Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Will you _please_ be quiet so I can—” His head snaps up when he realizes something.   
  
It’s quiet. This entire time they’ve been talking, Bruce hasn’t had to raise his voice _once_ to be heard over Tim. The cave is silent.   
  
They all turn around, and for a split second Bruce is seized with fears of the worst, but Tim’s chest is still rising. Cass has taken off Tim’s cowl, revealing pale skin coated in a sheen of sweat. One of her palms cups his cheek while the other smooths back his hair, comforting him. Tim’s lashes are clumped together with drying tears, but he’s awake.   
  
“What the hell?” Jason says.   
  
Bruce walks to the cot and stands over Tim, pulling down his own cowl. “Tim,” he says. “How do you feel?”   
  
Tim swallows, and his voice sounds like he’s been gargling asphalt. “...Good?” His eyebrows twitch, as though he didn’t notice the pain receding until it was gone. “It doesn’t hurt anymore.”   
  
“Is it over?” Dick asks from his place at the computer.   
  
“If Ivy’s plan was to torture people, I doubt she’d want it wearing off in less than an hour,” Bruce says.   
  
“Maybe it was a test run. See how it does with a small group, and then unleash it for real.”   
  
Bruce can’t help the nagging feeling that he’s missing something here. But what other explanation is there? What has changed in the minutes between Tim screaming in excruciating pain and now?   
  
Cass’ fingers still card through Tim’s hair, and he seems to relax more into his sister’s touch.   
  
“Cassie,” Bruce says slowly. “Can you take your hands away for a minute?”   
  
“Why?”   
  
“I just want to see something.”   
  
Cass nods once and steps back, Tim’s sweat-soaked bangs flopping back into place. For a while, nobody breathes. Ten seconds pass. Twenty seconds. Thirty.   
  
“What are we waiting for?” Jason mumbles to Dick. Bruce pays no attention and keeps his inquiring gaze fixed on Tim.   
  
A full minute passes, and that’s when Tim’s jaw begins to tighten. His eyebrows furrow. Bruce’s stomach sinks to the floor. “It’s hurting again, isn’t it?”   
  
Tim nods. He closes his eyes and says through gritted teeth, “Slowly. But—getting worse.”   
  
He only makes it another twenty seconds before his composure breaks and a whimper slips out. He reaches out blindly for one of Cass’ hands and quickly presses it back to his cheek, holding it there until once again his muscles slacken; the pain seeps back out. But when his eyes crack open again to look at Bruce, they are filled with terror.   
  
“Well, shit,” Jason announces. “This isn’t good.”   
  
Heart pounding, Bruce yanks his glove off with his teeth and removes Tim’s as well. He grabs his son’s hand tightly. “What about now? Does it still hurt?”   
  
Tim waits, gaze far away as he assesses for any hint of pain. After a minute, he shakes his head. “Nothing.”   
  
Bruce squeezes Tim’s hand. “Okay. We can deal with this.”   
  
Jason snorts. “Yeah. Have fun dealing with a reverse _Five Feet Apart_ situation.”   
  
“It’s only for a little while,” Bruce says, more so to reassure Tim, who looks like he’s going to be sick. “We just need to work around it.”   
  
Tim sits up, switching out Bruce’s hand for Cass’. Bruce tries not to take it personally. “How long?” he asks.   
  
“There’s no way of knowing when the pollen will wear off.”   
  
“What about a cure?”   
  
“We can work on it, but it won’t be easy until we catch Ivy and find out how she created it in the first place.”   
  
Tim gnaws his bottom lip. “Can we try one of the antidotes from her other stuff? Maybe there’s enough overlap to reverse the effects.”   
  
Bruce shakes his head. “It’s too risky.”   
  
“But what if there’s a chance?”   
  
“What if it makes it worse? What if it does more harm than good?” Bruce doesn’t want to imagine all the ways this could go wrong. “I know you don’t like this, but until we find Ivy, it’s better that you stick around and—”   
  
“No! No way.” Tim stands, letting go of Cass and backing away. “I can’t be _—clinging_ to you guys for however long it takes you to track her down.”   
  
“It won’t be forever,” Dick assures him. “We’ll do rotations. Make sure someone can be with you at all times. And you can stay at the manor instead of your apartment so you’ll have someone at night.”   
  
Tim just shakes his head more fervently with every word. “No. This is stupid. I’m not going to sit around and be taken care of just because of a little pain.”   
  
“A little?” Jason snorts. “I’ve seen burn victims freak out less than that.”   
  
Tim shoots him a glare. “I can adjust. I’ve done it before.”   
  
“Tim, come on,” Dick says. “This isn’t as bad as you’re making it out to be. So you have to spend more time with your family. You could have gotten hit with a _lot_ worse.”   
  
But Tim is already turning to go. “I’m _fine,_ okay? I don’t need this.” With that, he storms upstairs to the manor. Dick starts to go after him, but Bruce grabs him by the shoulder and holds him back.   
  
“Let him take a minute to adjust. He’ll come around in his own time. Just stay close by for when he does, okay?”   
  
Dick nods, and Bruce releases him. He watches Dick ascend the steps, pulling off his mask and disappearing.   
  
“I know this is going to sound insensitive,” Jason says after a while, “but this has got to be the most hilarious thing Ivy could’ve done.”   
  
Bruce sighs and gives him the ol’ bat-glare. “I’d better not catch you giving Tim a hard time about this, okay? The situation is bad enough as it is without you antagonizing him.”   
  
Jason waves a hand. “Yeah, yeah, spare me the lecture. I’ll use kid gloves.”   
  
  


* * *

  
  
Tim can handle pain.   
  
In the past he’s powered through bullet holes, throbbing bruises, and bloody noses. He’s endured broken bones, open wounds, and being skewered by swords. He’s brushed death a thousand times over until it’s become a familiar acquaintance. He’s had so many teeth knocked out that only half of the ones in his mouth are real at this point. He’s had the goddamn _plague_ and walked it off.   
  
Tim can handle pain. He can. He’ll do it if it kills him.   
  
When he first got dosed in that building, every nerve in Tim’s body lit on fire so quickly he had no time to brace himself for it. He was being burned alive and shoved through a meat grinder and melted with acid, all at once until he was sure this kind of pain couldn’t be _possible._  
  
He didn’t register the jolt in his kneecaps as they hit solid ground, nor could he hear Jason’s voice in his ear, asking him what was wrong. Tim’s screams were too loud.   
  
“Tim!” Jason shouted, but he might as well have been speaking from underwater. “Talk to me, man. What’s happening?”   
  
“Call Bruce,” Tim gasped, body wracked with shooting pain. “Call— _god,_ _fuck_ —call Bruce.”   
  
When Tim was a kid, he used to read articles and watch videos during his “dangerous insects” phase and learned about all of the painful venom they secrete. Tim has never felt more bad for Coyote Peterson than he did right then, for searing venom rushed through his veins as though he were being branded by thousands of tiny hot irons.   
  
All he wanted was to pass out, to make the pain stop—but it just went on, and on, and _on._ Tim can easily say that it was the worst pain he’s experienced in his entire life.   
  
While the pollen’s effect had been instantaneous then, now it seems to be taking its time creeping through Tim’s body. As soon as he let go of Cass’ hand he expected to be slapped by pain all over again, but there was nothing. Yet.   
  
He heads straight to his bedroom, passing Alfred and waving off questions he’s only half-listening to. He knows he must look like a wreck. His legs are jelly and his hands throb from how hard he was clenching them earlier, nails leaving red crescent imprints in his palms.   
  
Thirty seconds since he left the cave and already the fire is back, licking at his edges. Not in painful territory yet, but it’s there. Taunting him with its presence. He closes his bedroom door and undoes the clasps of his uniform. The heavy fabric is practically pasted to his skin with sweat and grime.   
  
He stumbles into the shower, using the wall to support himself as the venom slowly amps up from a tickle to a real discomfort. He turns the water as hot as it will go and scrubs the pollen out of his hair, the tacky sweat off his skin.   
  
In two minutes he’s biting his lip so hard he tastes iron. He rushes to rinse the shampoo out of his hair, all the while venom cauterizes his flesh and turns his blood into steam.   
  
“Fuck, fuck, _fuck,”_ he hisses. His limbs tremble but he forces himself to keep moving, to work through the pain. He can _handle_ this.   
  
That’s what Tim tells himself even when he ends up curled up on his bed minutes later, groaning through the fire. He managed to dry off and pull on a pair of boxers, but that was as far as he got before just the act of standing made him lightheaded. His hair is still wet.   
  
God, it’s only been five minutes and already he wants to die. How is he going to handle _days_ of this agony? A sob cuts through before he can stop it.   
  
Someone knocks on the door. “Timbo?” Dick says. “You in there?”   
  
Tim can’t muster the words to respond; can barely _think_ with the venom coursing through his body. Luckily, he doesn’t have to, for Dick— _god,_ Tim is so grateful for him—opens the door and closes it behind him without Tim needing to ask him to. Fuck. He will never say another bad thing about Dick ever again if he can just make this _stop._  
  
Tim’s eyes are squeezed shut so he doesn’t see Dick approach, but he feels his weight sink beside him on the mattress. Then there’s a hand on his bare back, and Tim shudders at the contact. But he doesn’t dare move away, for that touch alone has the ache seeping back out the way ink drips from a fountain pen. Sluggish and slow, but the relief is indescribable.   
  
He cracks his eyes open and is ashamed to feel warm tears on his face.   
  
Dick rubs his back. “Better?” Tim nods, feeling like he’s thirteen years old again. “I know this sucks,” Dick says, voice gentle. “And I wish you weren’t the one stuck in this situation, but you are. All we can do now is try to deal with it.”   
  
Tim shoves his face into his pillow and says not a word.   
  
“Not much is going to change, so it won’t be a huge adjustment. We’re all going to take shifts so there’s someone with you...whenever you need it.” He doesn’t say “all the time,” and that’s why he’s the greatest person on the face of the earth. “And I know you don’t like it, but it’s better than being in pain all the time, right?”   
  
Tim hates the idea. Hates it with a passion. _Loathes_ it. He wants to crumple the idea up and throw it into the fireplace so he can watch it turn into ashes.   
  
Dick prods him. “Tim?”   
  
“What am I supposed to say?”   
  
“I want to know what you think.”  
  
“Why? It’s not like I have a choice in the matter.”   
  
“You always have a choice. But I think you’re smart enough to know that this is the best option if you don’t want to be miserable for weeks.”   
  
Tim sighs. “I know,” he mutters into his pillow. “I just hate it.”   
  
Dick’s hand is warm on his back. “It won’t be forever. We’ll find Ivy, figure out how to reverse this, and you’ll be good as new.”   
  
Tim picks at a loose thread in his pillowcase. “Yeah.”   
  
He feels Dick shifting, and for one terrifying second, Tim thinks he’s going to leave. But Dick kicks off his shoes and maneuvers around on the bed so he can lie down on his side, throwing one arm over Tim’s waist.   
  
“Is it okay if I stay here tonight?” he asks. Tim was too out of it before to notice that Dick has already changed out of his Nightwing uniform. A cotton t-shirt and sweatpants brush against his skin.   
  
Tim shrugs. “If you want to.” _Don’t you dare leave._ Besides, Tim would be a liar if he said he wasn’t completely exhausted after the night’s events. It takes hardly any time at all for him to drift asleep, comforted by the steady sound of his brother snoring in his ear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Every time I write Bruce he gets more and more tired and I find it _hilarious._ I don't know when the next chapter is going to be up, but I can say that this one took me about a week and the next is roughly the same length (I think) so I'm guessing the next one will take around the same amount of time??? Who knows???


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeahhh I decided to make it three chapters because this one was getting too long, so I split it in half. I don't know when the last one is going to be posted, because half of that is written but not edited, and the other half is an assortment of bullet points that I intend to turn into actual writing at some point. My brain is broken and I blame the government.

When Tim wakes up, for a brilliant five seconds while his consciousness lies in the gray zone between sleep and wakefulness, he forgets. He forgets about the incident from yesterday—about the new burden he’s been unfairly shouldered with.    
  
Then he becomes aware of Dick’s cold feet pressed against his shin, the prior night’s events come flooding back, and Tim wants nothing more than to pull the covers over his head and go back to sleep. For eternity, preferably.    
  
One glance at the Aquaman alarm clock on the nightstand informs him that it’s only 5:36. One of the suppressed slivers of self-preservation Tim still possesses wants to wake Dick up so Tim can get out of bed without feeling like he’s being obliterated by the heat vision of five Supermen.    
  
However, that old reliable insecurity overrides the order quickly. Because Tim is an  _ adult,  _ damn it.    
  
(Fine, so he’s got another three months until he’s eighteen. But he’s an emancipated minor and that’s basically the same thing, so fuck you.)   
  
Tim doesn’t need to bother his sleep-deprived brother just so he can get a Pop-Tart from the kitchen with the utmost comfort. It’ll be ten minutes, tops. He can handle ten minutes of pain. He’s endured far worse for longer periods of time, so this is  _ nothing _ in comparison. Right?    
  
It takes some wriggling to escape from Dick’s teddy-bear grip, but Tim manages to slip out of bed without jostling Dick awake. His joints are stiff, but otherwise he feels fine. A little like a deer waiting for the cougar to tear it to shreds, but fine.    
  
He brushes his teeth, and he’s still fine. He goes downstairs, taking the steps carefully so as not to wake anyone else, and it’s like last night never happened. It was all just a bizarre dream, because Tim is  _ fine.  _ _   
_ _   
_ Only when he hits the kitchen’s threshold do pinpricks start tingling along Tim’s spine. Not painfully. Not even uncomfortably, yet. But the warning is there.    
  
He doesn’t falter in his step and heads straight for the pantry like a perfectly healthy seventeen-year-old. He grabs a package of blueberry Pop-Tarts and turns, only to jump a foot in the air when he finds Damian sitting at the kitchen island as though he appeared out of thin air. He’s eating a bowl of fruit and playing a game on his phone, paying no attention to Tim.    
  
Tim takes a second for his blood pressure to settle back down and chastises himself. It’s his own fault for being so on edge. If  _ Bruce  _ were the one saddled with this affliction, he’d muscle through it without a problem. He’s Batman. He’s strong.    
  
Meanwhile  _ Tim  _ lets it turn him into a nervous wreck. Typical.    
  
“Drake,” Damian greets, giving him a cursory once-over. “You’re up early.”    
  
Flames lick at Tim’s fingertips like he’s holding them over a candle. “So are you.”    
  
“How observant.” He rolls his eyes. “Where is Grayson? I thought it was his turn to babysit you.”    
  
Tim puts his Pop-Tarts in the toaster, and his hands only shake a little. “It’s not like you guys have a schedule or anything.”    
  
But Damian points at the fridge, Tim follows his finger and—well, what do you know? Amid the Disney magnets and pocket-sized family photos now hangs a rectangular whiteboard with the days of the week and multiple columns representing every hour. Each box has a name in it.    
  
“You’re kidding me.”   
  
Damian chews a slice of apricot. “You got yourself into this mess. I mean, a trip wire? That’s  _ preschool _ -level.”   
  
Tim elects not to rise to the challenge, and it’s definitely not because he knows his voice will come out strained as hell, what with the way his nerves beg for mercy and threaten to jump off the deck. He ignores it. He’s had worse, he tells himself.    
  
The Keurig hums and heats up his coffee, and Tim ignores the pain.    
  
He retrieves his favorite caramel creamer from the refrigerator, and still he ignores the pain.    
  
The toaster springs his Pop-Tarts loose, and Tim...he  _ tries  _ to ignore it. But he can’t stop the squeak that slips from his lips as the next wave peaks and he stumbles into the counter, just barely keeping himself upright. Damian’s eyes burn on the back of Tim’s neck and he can’t imagine what the demon must think of him now. Tim can’t even make _ breakfast _ anymore without collapsing from nonexistent pain.    
  
Tim’s fingers grip the edge of the counter until it leaves red lines against his knuckles, but it’s not even  _ close  _ to what the rest of him is feeling. He should have stayed upstairs with Dick. The venom radiates in his marrow and sears flesh he didn’t even know existed.    
  
Tim’s resolve finally breaks and his knees buckle so that the only thing holding him up now is his tremulous grip on the counter. That’s when Damian gets up from his stool, and Tim expects him to go and play Candy Crush in another room—one where he won’t have to be bothered by Tim’s pained groans.    
  
Instead, he feels a small hand cover his forearm. Tim flinches and goosebumps rise on his skin, but he doesn’t move away from the touch. He sags as the pain vanishes in waves. Damian isn’t facing him, and continues to mess around on his phone, ignoring Tim entirely.    
  
Another moment and the venom is washed away completely, as though it were never there in the first place. Letting out a shaky breath, Tim straightens up and returns to his breakfast. He gives Damian his second Pop-Tart.    
  
They don’t talk about it.    
  
  


* * *

“What about Doctor Mid-Nite?” Steph tries. “He might be able to help.”    
  
“Already called him,” Bruce says.    
  
“And?”    
  
“He doesn’t know anything more about this than we do.”   
  
Tim huffs. “I think he’s just holding a grudge because everyone mistakes him for Red Robin now. You should interrogate him more.” He flicks absently at the tube attached to the needle in his arm, drawing blood out of him like he’s some kind of backwards vampire.    
  
Bruce smacks his hand away. “Stop playing with that.”    
  
“What about painkillers?” Steph asks. She’s sitting beside Tim on the medical table, doodling a firetruck over the layer of scars on his wrist, just a few inches below the needle. Tim is almost certain she’s using a permanent marker, but he doesn’t say anything. After all, it could be worse. She could be drawing a dick.    
  
Bruce doesn’t look away from his tablet. “There are some we can try, but the best they’ll do is take the edge off. The pollen counteracts anything we give you.”    
  
“What about alcohol?” Steph says. “Like in the olden days when they’d get you drunk before they came to saw your limbs off.”    
  
“I’m not twenty-one yet.”    
  
“But what if it’s for your health?”   
  
“...Bruce, can I try alcohol?”    
  
“No.”    
  
“He said no,” Tim reports.    
  
“I think he’s just being mean.”    
  
“Agreed. Bruce, why do you hate me?”    
  
Bruce sighs. “Are you two done?”    
  
“Perhaps.” Tim flicks the tube again, watching his blood drain. “So what are the chances that you’ll actually be able to fabricate an antidote from this?”    
  
“Honestly? Not very high. But it’s better than not trying, right?”    
  
“In that case, wouldn’t it be a more productive use of your time to search for Ivy instead?”    
  
“Jason and Cass are already on it.”    
  
“So? There’s a ton of ground to cover, and I already have a few ideas about where she might be hiding out.”   
  
Steph adds a tiny stick figure fireman to her drawing. “Is one of them wherever Harley is?”    
  
“Of course. I’ve read enough fanfiction to know romance when I see it.” Tim takes out his phone and pulls up his notes app. “Other good places to try include greenhouses, national parks, and that swamp behind the Walmart. I figure we can start with those tonight, and if she doesn’t turn up I can try an algorithm I’ve been tinkering with—”   
  
“What do you mean, tonight?” Bruce asks, tearing his attention from his tablet.    
  
“What?”    
  
Bruce’s eyebrows furrow. “You know you’re not patrolling in your condition, right?”   
  
“You’re  _ benching me?”  _   
  
“The pollen makes you too vulnerable. And your suit covers you from head to toe, so you’ll be even more at risk.”   
  
“I can cut off the sleeves and make it grunge.”    
  
“The answer is no, Tim. Your only job right now is to be patient and not do anything stupid.”    
  
Stephanie snorts. “That’s a tall order, bossman.” Tim swats the back of her head. She swats him back.    
  
Bruce stares up at the ceiling like he craves nothing more in the world than death. It’s a look Tim recognizes well. “If you really want to help out,” he says, “you can run comms from here. But as far as field work goes, you’re off duty until you’re free of the toxin.”    
  
Tim opens his mouth to argue, but is stopped by his alarm going off. He looks back at his phone screen and curses, unhooking the needle. “I forgot about work. I’m supposed to sign off on the location for a new Neon Knights center today.” He presses a band-aid to the blood that beads up and stands, tugging Steph along with him.    
  
“I think you can afford to take a few days off work,” Bruce reminds him.    
  
“Doesn’t mean I want to. Besides, I do most of the stuff behind the scenes at home, so I have to make an appearance at least once or twice a week.”    
  
“Tim,” Bruce says. “I was once a CEO too, and I think we both know that our only job is to look rich and play computer games all day.”   
  
Fine, so he’s not wrong. But Tim prides himself on doing  _ actual  _ work at WE—mainly because he can’t afford the tiniest slip-up if he doesn’t want the press to turn their heckling on Gotham’s seventeen-year-old CEO. “So?”   
  
“So, no one would think less of you if you stuck around here for a while. It’ll be good to take a break.”   
  
“He’s got a point,” Steph says. “Though I wouldn’t be opposed to tagging along and being arm candy. I’ve been practicing my snooty rich person persona for weeks.”   
  
“Yeah,” Tim says with a grin. “It’ll be like Bring Your Girlfriend To Work Day.” They high-five.   
  
Bruce crosses his arms. “Stephanie, you know I love you. But I am being completely honest when I say I would rather die than let you back in that building. Not after what happened last time.”   
  
Steph rolls her eyes. “You really need to let that go.”    
  
“Two  _ million  _ dollars’ worth of damage.”   
  
“Nobody got hurt!”   
  
“I did! Emotionally!”   
  
“As amusing as this is,” Tim says, “I really need to get dressed. Is Steph going to be my skin contact buddy or not?”    
  
“No,” Bruce says, rooted in his decision.    
  
“Well, I’m not staying home.”

* * *

“This is demeaning,” Tim says.    
  
He and Bruce are walking into the Wayne Enterprises building, Bruce’s hand heavy on Tim’s shoulder. He’s wearing a sports jacket, but Bruce’s fingers brushing his neck is enough skin contact to keep the pain to a minimum for now.    
  
“How is it demeaning?” He nods to the secretary as they pass. “Good morning, Sharon. Love the new dress.”    
  
“I’m being walked into work by my  _ dad,”  _ Tim hisses.    
  
Bruce just shrugs. “I offered to let you stay home.”   
  
Tim squirms under Bruce’s touch, feeling like a kid afraid of getting lost at the zoo. While he can’t deny that there are days when all he wants is a hug or acknowledgment from his mentor, right now it’s suffocating. And it’s not even Bruce’s fault. He’s doing whatever he can to save Tim from unnecessary pain, and Tim knows he should be grateful.    
  
And yet, as soon as they are safely inside Tim’s office and the prying eyes are gone, Tim shrugs out from under Bruce’s hand. He puts some distance between them, even if it sets off exclamation points exploding in his brain because  _ pain incoming, brace yourself, find shelter and hide the children.  _   
  
Bruce doesn’t comment. He’s too smart not to recognize the avoidance for what it is, but he’s like Tim in that if someone else doesn’t bring the subject up first, you can count on it not being discussed at all. Just the way Tim likes it.    
  
Morning turns to afternoon in relative silence. Bruce plays Solitaire on his phone while Tim goes about his work, and it’s nice. Unlike the others, Bruce  _ gets  _ Tim. They don’t need hours of chatter to enjoy each other’s company. It almost makes Tim wonder if Bruce isn’t his biological father after all, for sometimes it feels like Bruce is the only one besides Tim who understands the beauty of solitude.    
  
Tim’s sleeve is rolled up so Bruce can keep his free hand on him while they both go about their business. After a few hours of signing documents and navigating the dozens of emails Lucius has sent to plug up Tim’s inbox, his skin starts to prickle under Bruce’s touch. Tim does his best to ignore it—to keep himself from pulling his arm away and moving to the other end of the room just to get some  _ space  _ for a minute.    
  
Tim endures the contact for as long as he can, but every second takes a lifetime. And Tim knows he’s being silly. All he’s doing is sitting here with his father, working quietly. There’s no reason to feel like he’s choking—like he’s being  _ suffocated _ under Bruce’s touch.   
  
It builds. And builds. And builds until Tim can’t take it anymore.    
  
He stands, picking up his half-empty thermos and letting Bruce’s hand fall from his arm. “I’ll be right back.” Bruce puts his phone down and starts to rise from his chair as well, but Tim waves a hand. “You don’t need to come. I just...need a minute alone.”    
  
He prays Bruce understands. That he can sense Tim’s itchiness to be by himself, if only for long enough to refill his damn coffee thermos. And thank god for Batman and his ability to read body language, because Bruce sits back down. “Okay.”    
  
As soon as he’s free, Tim feels better than he has all day, as if he’s been carrying around a backpack full of textbooks and now he finally lets it fall from his shoulders.    
  
The kicker is that Tim knows exactly why he’s reacting this way; he just never anticipated it would be this bad. Even on a good day, Tim can’t stand being in close proximity with people for too long. The introvert in him can only handle so much interaction before he requires a personal bubble the size of Texas. And usually it’s a problem, but lately it’s been so much worse.    
  
Even when he’s with Steph, sometimes there are days when Tim can’t  _ stand  _ to be touched. They’ll switch out cuddling for holding hands, and sometimes not even that is tolerable. She doesn’t take it personally—same as Dick when he and Tim were first getting used to each other.    
  
He doesn’t know why he’s like this. Doesn’t know what fragment of his soul splintered enough to make him so  _ wrong.  _ Because humans are pack animals. They need interaction as much as they need food and water. So why doesn’t Tim?    
  
Raven suggested once that it could be a product of Tim’s upbringing. He has no clue if she’s correct or not, but he can’t find an argument against it. After all, it’s no secret that Jack and Janet Drake were not the most affectionate people.    
  
As a child, Tim often went weeks without seeing his parents. And when they  _ did  _ come home, it wasn’t like they all cuddled on the sofa and watched  _ It’s a Wonderful Life.  _ Dad used to preach about how too much physical affection wasn’t good for a growing boy. That being smothered with hugs would make Tim too soft when he grew up, or—god  _ forbid _ —hugging their own child once in a while would turn him gay. Because that’s a good priority to have.   
  
Tim takes his time walking to the break room, even when his muscles start to burn from the lack of contact. His nerves catch on fire as he refills his thermos with coffee, but he lingers for as long as he can before the pain toes the line between  _ not-so-great  _ and  _ okay-now-this-really-fucking-hurts.  _   
  
When he gets back, Bruce must be able to read on Tim’s face how badly he’s hurting. “You okay?”    
  
“Yeah. Just—hurts.” Tim locks a groan behind his teeth. He crosses the room only to stumble when he’s hit by a wave of pain, knocking his knee into the side of the desk. Bruce is out of his seat in an instant and catches Tim by the elbows before he can fall.    
  
He raises one hand to cup Tim’s cheek, and Tim lets out a breath as the agony leaves in wisps. Bruce pushes up Tim’s sleeve with his other hand so he can wrap his fingers around Tim’s forearm, letting him soak in as much skin contact as possible.   
  
“Better?” he checks, looking over Tim for any sign of pain.    
  
Tim swallows thickly, chest loosening as the last of the fire is extinguished. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Thanks.”    
  
“You were gone for eight and a half minutes.”   
  
“No one asked you to count.”    
  
“I know you prefer space, but you can’t keep letting yourself hurt like this.”   
  
Tim pulls Bruce’s hand from his face, but lets him keep a grip on his arm. “It’s fine, Bruce. Don’t worry about me.”   
  
“Tim.” And there’s the dad voice.    
  
“It’s  _ fine,”  _ Tim insists, with more bite than he intends. “I’m dealing, okay?” He sits back in his desk chair so he doesn’t have to see the concern in Bruce’s eyes any longer. “Besides,” he says. “A little pain never hurt anyone.”

* * *

  
  
The days pass, each leaving them no closer to a cure than the one before. Tim doesn’t know how much longer he can take this.    
  
He knows he has no right to be bitter, and it probably makes him a bad person that he is. His family is being more accommodating about his condition than he had any right to expect; yet all he wants to do, every minute of every day, is lock himself away in his room and stay there forever.    
  
He’s tried all sorts of painkillers in an effort to make the venom even slightly more bearable, but so far nothing has worked. In fact, half of them just end up making him nauseous, which—combined with the pain already giving him a hard time—is just plain uncalled for.    
  
Bruce’s attempt at creating an antidote was a bust, and Tim knows it was foolish to get his hopes up. But they were. Up. And now they’re somewhere underground, sinking into the earth and getting lost in the mud. Because Tim Drake isn’t allowed to have a single win, of course.    
  
He copes however he can, because what else is there to do? If he wanted to wallow, it’s not like he’d be able to do it without an audience, anyway.    
  
During the day, Tim goes about like normal: working on his laptop, sparring, video-chatting with the Titans to keep up appearances. He doesn’t want his friends getting a whiff of his current situation and discovering his new dependence.    
  
His family plus Steph all take shifts so someone is with Tim at all times, and Tim  _ tries  _ to appreciate the company. Really, he does. He tries to enjoy lounging around with his siblings and helping Alfred in the kitchen. Even Damian chips in, though he keeps Tim at arm’s length and vice versa.   
  
But then there are times when Tim wakes up with Steph’s hair in his face or is suffocated by Jason’s Axe body spray. Times when he would trade his soul if it meant he got  _ ten minutes  _ to himself. Just ten minutes so he can  _ breathe.  _ So he can feel—for the first time in over a week—that he isn’t being smothered and drained and  _ suffocated.  _   
  
It makes him long for the past, when his parents would leave him home alone for weeks at a time. Weeks completely alone, where he could be in peace and not feel like there were eyes on him wherever he went. Tim longs for a time when he wasn’t trapped in his own skin, unable to escape because he literally  _ can’t do that right now.  _   
  
And the longer it goes on, the worse it gets. What started out as mild discomfort becomes raging, squirming anxiety.    
  
At night, the anxiety collides with the knowledge that in  _ addition  _ to being trapped in constant interaction, Tim can’t even rely on the one outlet he’s used as his crutch for years. He’s reduced to  _ tech support,  _ miles away from the real action that he yearns for like a cat to cream.    
  
He aches to put on his Red Robin uniform and swing into the night sky, having his only skin contact be the thud of knuckles against someone’s jaw. But no, he’s not even allowed that lifeline. Every night Tim takes his post at the Batcomputer and monitors patrol from afar, along with Alfred or whichever one of the others has elected to take the night off to stay with Tim.    
  
Tim hates this. He  _ hates _ it. His wings are clipped and his body is in a tug-of-war of desire for both solitude and contact, and he  _ hates it.  _ He spends night after night cooped up in the cave, watching everyone deal out justice while he’s stuck here, sitting around and holding hands with whichever sibling is invading his personal space tonight.    
  
Tim eats with his family. Brushes his teeth with his family. Everything he  _ does  _ is a partner chore now. Showering now takes place in the Batcave’s locker room, since it takes no effort for Tim to reach over the divider between the stalls and touch Dick’s shoulder any time the pain rises above a six.    
  
It was Tim’s idea to start using the number system: one being “totally fine” and ten being “my skin is melting off of my bones and I want to die.” It makes it easier for the others to know where he’s at, pain-wise, and helps them all keep track of how long it takes for the pain to reach unbearable levels.    
  
Today, Tim is watching a movie in the den with his head in Cass’ lap. Her skin below the cutoff of her shorts is warm against his neck, but still there is a cauldron boiling under his skin. He wants to speak up as much as he doesn’t, because right now, this is a level of skin contact he can handle. He doesn’t feel claustrophobic right now, but the pollen has apparently sensed his comfort and seeks to destroy it.    
  
His wince doesn’t escape Cass’ notice. He doesn’t know why he hoped it would. “Number?” she asks.    
  
He wants to lie—say it’s at a one and he’s fine. But Cass is too good to believe any fib he tells her. “Three,” he admits quietly.    
  
She goes to take his hand, but Tim flinches. She links their pinkies instead. “Better?”    
  
Tim waits for the pain to simmer back down. “Yeah. Thanks.” But he’s still frowning.   
  
“What?” she asks.    
  
“I think it’s getting worse.”    
  
“How?”    
  
“I don’t know. Just...before, it took a minute or two for the pain to get bad. Now I start feeling it in half the time. And I think I need more skin contact at a time for it to work.”    
  
“That’s...not good.”    
  
“No, it’s not.” 


	3. Chapter 3

Call Jason what you want, but he is  _ perfectly  _ capable of proving himself a good companion when he wants to be. He prides himself on it, actually. When all the chips are down and storm clouds are perpetually rolling, Jason Peter Todd is a goddamn  _ delight.  _ Just because he gets a kick out of being a loveable bastard ninety-nine percent of the time doesn’t mean he can’t dial it down when it counts.    
  
He will admit that things between him and Tim have been tense every since That Day. He doesn’t know if it’s because Tim is still pissed, or because Jason doesn’t know how to handle the guilt swimming in his gut every time Tim winces in pain. He’s going to take a shot and assume it’s a combination of both.    
  
Jason takes his shifts hanging out with Tim just as the others do, but he’s not about to stutter and stumble over his packed-away feelings like an awkward Tim clone. So what if this is all his fault? That doesn’t mean he has to address it.    
  
He avoids the personal space argument at all costs. Most of the time, he and Tim just spar in the cave when it’s Jason’s turn to babysit. It’s the perfect blend of skin contact and no talking whatsoever. Perfect.    
  
Whenever they’re not sparring, Jason and Tim just sit in companionable silence and say hardly a word to each other aside from “stop sitting on the remote” or “pass the guacamole.” Even for a bat, Tim is notoriously difficult to read when it comes to personal shit—to the stuff that matters. If he holds a grudge for what happened, Jason’s got no way of knowing. Tim’s silence could mean a hundred different things.    
  
Is he still angry? Does he resent Jason for this? And if he doesn’t, then why not?    
  
Jason doesn’t ask.   
  
Right now, he’s reading a book from the library stash he’s been steadily working his way through over the last couple of months. Tim, beside him on the couch, is working on his laptop with Jason’s arm weighing heavily around his shoulders.    
  
Jason has been waiting for him to say something—tell him to get off or that he reeks of french fry grease or that he would rather be in agony than have to endure the presence of Jason Todd, Professional Jackass.    
  
But Tim says none of that. Not verbally, at least. He squirms a few times and he’s stiff as a shy house guest, but he doesn’t move. Jason would pull away and give the kid space if he could. But from what Bruce and Tim have gathered, the pollen is getting worse and worse the longer it stays in Tim’s system, which is super fucking wonderful.    
  
These days it only takes twenty seconds for the pain to flare, and Jason doesn’t know if he would be a bigger jerk right now by moving or not moving.    
  
Then Tim’s knee starts to bounce. Jason doesn’t pay much attention to it, considering that the kid has always been twitchy. This is nothing new. Except it doesn’t stop, as pages turn and minutes tick on. If anything, his quaking amps up in speed as though Tim’s watching a horror movie behind the Word documents and Minecraft intermissions.    
  
From the looks of things, Tim has been relaxing more over these last couple of weeks than he has in years. So what’s he got to be anxious about? Why does his knee shake and his fingertips tap the side of his laptop like he just spent everything he had on lottery tickets?    
  
After a while, Jason looks down at the mop of black hair. “You okay, man?”    
  
“Fine.” The fidgeting doesn’t stop.    
  
“Okay…Did you, like, drink ten Redbulls when I wasn’t looking?” He flicks Tim’s knee, and Tim flinches. What has got him so on edge?    
  
“I’m  _ fine.”  _ Which is obviously a load of bullshit. He’s not even _ trying _ to be convincing.    
  
Jason’s curiosity begs him to prod more, since it’s not like Tim can leave and avoid his questions even if he wanted to. But getting up in everyone’s business is Dick’s job, not Jason’s. If Tim wants to talk, then Jason will wait for him to bring it up on his own. He’s courteous like that.    
  
Another minute or so of Tim twitching like he’s two seconds away from bolting, he actually  _ does  _ bolt. At least, he shifts out from under Jason’s arm and stands up, leaving his laptop open on the couch. Like he’s dodging a hot poker.    
  
Jason closes his book. “Where are we going?”    
  
“You don’t have to come with me,” Tim says, too quick to be anything but a plea. “I just need to get something from my room. Twenty seconds.”    
  
Shrugging, Jason reopens the book. “Okay.” Fine, so the guy needs a second to recharge. Jason can give him that. He doesn’t bother to watch Tim leave, swept back away in Catherine and Heathcliff’s tale without a hitch.    
  
Damian’s hobbit footsteps come padding into the living room. He’s dragging along his Xbox and cables, which Alfred the cat pounces on as he plods behind Damian’s heels. “Todd? I thought you were on antidote duty.”    
  
A pointedly disinterested page-turn. “He went to his room for a sec.”    
  
A pause. “You must be a new breed of stupid.”    
  
_ That  _ makes Jason look up. “Excuse me?”    
  
“I heard Drake close and lock his door ten minutes ago. I assumed you were with him.”    
  
“Please tell me you’re kidding.” He could have  _ sworn  _ it’s only been a few seconds since Tim left. But Damian stares at him like Jason is the biggest idiot to walk the earth, and he drops his book. “Fuck. Shit. Fuck.”    
  
Jason launches himself off the couch, spitting profanities as he runs upstairs to Tim’s room, leaving an unimpressed Damian behind. He arrives at the stupid  _ Warning: Awesomeness Lives Here  _ sign and tries the knob but finds it locked, like Damian said.    
  
He knocks on the door. “Tim? You in there?”    
  
“Go  _ away,  _ Jason.” Even through the wooden barrier Jason can hear the rasp in Tim’s voice, and guilt curdles his stomach. Tim must be in  _ agony.  _ Why didn’t he say anything? Why doesn’t he want Jason’s help?    
  
“Come on, Tim, open the door. I’m not kidding around.”    
  
“No, go away. I’m—” He’s cut off by a hitched, grating sound that might be a shriek if it weren’t so muffled, as though Tim’s biting back noises in his sleeve. “I’m done.”    
  
“Done with  _ what?”  _   
  
“All of it, the—the touching and the hand-holding and not being able to go anywhere on my own—” The sentence hooks on a sob as what must be another wave of pain snatches Tim’s voice from his throat.    
  
From the sound of it, Tim must be directly on the other side of the door. Jason can picture him there, curled over his knees with his back to the door as he’s hit by wave after wave of  _ agony,  _ yet refuses to take the salve.    
  
“You’re being an idiot.” Jason rattles the doorknob. “Fucking—come on, Tim! Your human pain medication is  _ right here,  _ but you’re seriously not going to take it? What’s wrong with you?”    
  
“Shut  _ up,”  _ Tim groans. “Just leave me alone.”    
  
The worst part is that Jason  _ knows  _ he could easily pick the lock and be in there in two seconds if he wanted to. But how would Tim take that? He’s putting himself through hell just so he can take the only reprieve he’s got, and if Jason busts in and takes that away from him? He can count on Tim never trusting him again.    
  
Is Jason willing to sacrifice that if it means atoning for something that  _ he  _ caused in the first place?    
  
He pounds his fist into the wood again. “I swear to god, Tim, if you don’t open this door in  _ five seconds—”  _   
  
“Why do you  _ care?”  _   
  
That makes Jason stop. “What?”    
  
“You don’t give a shit anyway.” The words are scratched to shreds. “You’re only doing this because Bruce is making you, so just  _ go,  _ okay? Get out of here and leave me alone.”    
  
Jason...stands there, fist still raised to the door. He doesn’t know what to say.    
  
He can hear Tim panting, practically hyperventilating. Jason can’t bring himself to imagine what kind of pain Tim is experiencing right now, inches away. And Jason understands why Tim is doing this—that he’d rather be alone and hurting than painless and overwhelmed—but that doesn’t make him feel any better about his own uselessness.    
  
Jason lets his arm fall and presses his forehead against the door, trying to think. To conjure some way to make this  _ remotely  _ better, but there’s bupkis. He’s out of his depth here.    
  
Tim must think Jason left, because the next time he sobs it’s unrestrained and pierces Jason’s heart like a bullet. He ends up sinking to the floor, right there in the hallway, and sits cross-legged with his back to the door. Mirroring Tim.    
  
“I know you hate this, Tim. I do. But…”    
  
But what?  _ Suck it up? Deal with it anyway? You’re going to be uncomfortable no matter what you do, so you might as well stop whining?  _   
  
“Look,” he says finally. “We both know I’m not good at sugar-coating stuff, so I’m not going to try. This sucks. I mean, really,  _ really  _ sucks. But staying locked up in your room is only going to make it suck more. So if you want to stop being miserable and in pain, then you need to open the fucking door and let me help you.”    
  
He waits, but no answer other than a hitch of breath comes from the other side.    
  
“Tim? Are you listening?”    
  
Still nothing.    
  
Jason bangs the back of his head against the door. “Damn it, Tim! What do you want from me, huh? You want an apology? I’m  _ sorry,  _ okay? I’m sorry I was such an asshole to you with the touching thing. I’m sorry I kept pushing about it, I’m sorry I made fun of you, and I’m sorry I tripped over the stupid fucking wire and got you stuck in this clusterfuck of a mess in the first place. I’m  _ sorry,  _ all right? But I’m sitting here now and trying to make up for it, so will you  _ please  _ just let me do that?”    
  
He waits; for an answer, for a movement, for  _ something.  _ He waits and he waits and he waits.    
  
Just as Jason is debating whether to get up to find Alfred and have him take over, something brushes his hand on the floor. Jason’s gaze darts down to discover Tim’s fingertips poking out from the gap under the door, and the tightness that’s been choking him finally loosens.    
  
“Okay,” he says, and it comes out half-sigh. “That works. You can stay in there, and I’ll stick around out here, all right? Take as long as you need.”    
  
He presses his fingers to Tim’s, and the relief must be instantaneous from the way Tim sighs on the other side.    
  
“I’m not leaving, kid.” 

* * *

  
  
Guess how much Tim hates being benched from patrol.    
  
Here’s a hint: so much that he would gladly take on the  _ Joker  _ if it meant getting a taste of action, rather than being cooped up in this giant house like a Disney princess. He’s not  _ fragile,  _ contrary to what the others think. Just because he needs skin contact to keep from collapsing into a Tim-sized ball of agony doesn’t mean he can’t look after himself.    
  
Things have been better between Tim and Jason, which Tim takes as his only win in weeks. At least he now has a way to escape whenever he gets overwhelmed, which makes the situation  _ far  _ more bearable than it was two weeks ago. But he’s still not a fan of the patrol issue.    
  
And he tells Dick as much, ranting for the better part of an hour until he turns to discover Dick’s conked out in his chair, a bowl of popcorn slowly tipping out of his lap. So Tim can’t even hold a captive audience anymore. Lovely.    
  
Tim sits beside him in the Batcomputer’s larger, spinnier chair with his ankle hooked around Dick’s below the cutoff of his sweatpants, so at least his hands are free to do  _ serious  _ work. Like watching Central City Vine compilations, for example.    
  
Tonight, Bruce and Damian are at a gala in the Heights that they couldn’t get out of, which left Jason and Cass patrolling on their own since Dick is here babysitting Tim at the console. Alfred is meeting up with one of his old army pals, and Steph clocked out shortly after Dick did because she has a test tomorrow morning.    
  
All in all, it’s as quiet a night as they can expect to get. Tim chuckles through a clip of Captain Cold playing charades with his cat. He tosses a popcorn kernel in the air, only for it to bounce off his nose when a ping comes from his earpiece. Tim pauses the video and pulls up the radio feed in his earpiece.    
  
“Discount Oracle, here. What’s up?”    
  
There’s a crash in the background, which right away has Tim sitting up straighter.  _ “We need backup, pronto,”  _ Jason orders.    
  
“What’s going on?”    
  
_ “Ivy is what’s going on.”  _ Tim’s breath hitches. More crashing.  _ “We were going to bust in on her, but she got the drop on us with her fucking vines. Black Bat is down and I’m running low on ammo.”  _   
  
“What’s your location?”    
  
_ “Warehouse, corner of Fifth and Berkeley. Find ‘Wing ASAP and tell him to get his ass over—” _ There’s a grunt, then the line crackles and goes dead.    
  
“Hood?” No answer but a faint ringing. “Jason, can you hear me?” Fuck, fuck, fuck. Tim’s heartbeat thuds in his ears.  _ Ivy.  _ They’ve finally got her.    
  
Tim reaches over to wake Dick up, but hesitates an inch from his shoulder.    
  
Poison Ivy. The woman whose fault it is that Tim has been locked in anguish for weeks. And this entire time, Tim has been working behind the scenes, tagging every lead and researching any advantage that could be exploited. This is  _ Tim’s  _ case, and Ivy is his problem to solve.    
  
He needs to be the one to catch her. He can’t risk her getting away this time—not when she’s the only one who can end the pain for good and get him his life back.    
  
Tim pulls away from the proximity of Dick’s skin and stands, careful not to wake him up. Thank god for sugar crashes and Dick having not slept in two days, because he doesn’t even stir. Once free, the static returns to Tim’s body like a rubber band snapping back, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before that static turns into hot, aching pain.    
  
He’s working against the clock now. Tim doesn’t look back as he strides to the other end of the cave where his Red Robin uniform hangs, cold and gathering dust from disuse.    
  
Tim is going to catch Ivy tonight and fix this mess. He’ll do it if it kills him.

* * *

It takes Tim three minutes to reach the warehouse on his motorbike. The pollen takes twenty-seven seconds.    
  
He pushes through the pain—forces himself to keep going no matter how much it makes him want to curl up and scream until he’s hoarse. No matter how much he wants to burst into tears and call Dick so he can take over and hold Tim’s hand and make this  _ stop.  _ He wants it to stop.    
  
_ Focus,  _ he tells himself.  _ Don’t think about it. Keep going. Save Cass and Jason. Catch Ivy.  _ Then _ you can break down.  _   
  
He repeats it, over and over while a furnace makes home under his skin and every second takes an hour. He slips in from the warehouse’s roof and makes his way to the rafters where he can scout from above. The air is thick and humid, like a greenhouse, and Tim knows this must be where Ivy’s been hiding out all this time. Right under their noses.    
  
Below, he spots Jason and Cass against the far wall. Cass is out cold, hanging limply from her vine-encircled arms. Jason is in a similar predicament, only awake. Tim can’t hear what he’s saying, but he’s good enough at reading lips to know he’s cursing Ivy out with word-choices that would make Alfred faint.    
  
Good. Ivy won’t see Tim coming.    
  
He ignores the sweat dripping down his temple and fumbles for a pouch in his belt. His fingers are shaking. He forces himself to steady them even though they’re being melted by magma, all the way down to the bones.    
  
The smoke pellets clink in his palm, shaking right along with the tremors that wrack his body. He sets his jaw.    
  
_ Don’t think about it. Just go.  _   
  
Tim drops the pellets and jumps from his perch just as they hit the floor, covering the area in thick smoke. He doesn’t let himself hesitate—doesn’t let himself take so much as a  _ millisecond  _ of a pause, for he refuses to let the pain slow him down. Not this time.    
  
Jason swears; he must have caught up with the program. “Replacement? Where the hell is Nightwing?”    
  
Tim pays him no attention. It’s been six and a half minutes, give or take, since he left Dick asleep in that spinny chair, and black splotches are starting to fuzz in his vision. He’s working with borrowed time.    
  
He lets the adrenaline take the wheel as he and Ivy fight, pushing him faster and harder, giving his body no time to take into account the shocks of pain tracing every movement.    
  
_ Keep going  _ is the chorus in his head, punctuating every thwack of his bo staff. That, and Jason yelling something that Tim chooses to ignore. He can’t afford to lose his groove now—not when he’s so close to ending this.    
  
That’s when something grabs his ankle and _ tugs, _ pulling Tim’s leg out from under him. Tim’s face slams into the cement floor, and his stomach rolls when he hears a sickening crunch as the cartilage in his nose gives way to the impact.    
  
_ So that’s what Jason was yelling about,  _ he thinks dizzily.  _ Good to know.  _   
  
Tim forces himself back to his wobbly feet, but he’s lost all finesse. The adrenaline is waning; the pain is catching back up with him. Ivy laughs, and Tim hoists his bo staff only for another vine to grab his wrist and yank it back in one sharp twist. The staff slips from his grasp and clatters to the floor.    
  
“That’s better,” Ivy purrs.    
  
The vine unwraps from around Tim’s leg and travels up his body, seizing his neck before he can try to wriggle away. His movements are miles behind his thoughts, like audio that’s out of sync with the video. Tim struggles weakly as the vine tightens around his neck, but the pollen is blistering Tim’s insides, drawing his focus away from anything that isn’t  _ pain, pain, pain, ow, make it stop.  _   
  
Ivy looks him up and down—takes in the clammy skin, his trembly muscles, the tension in his jaw. Smirks. “Well, would you look at that. I was wondering which unlucky soul got the present I left.”    
  
Tim tries to talk—or maybe groan; who knows—but the vine tightens around his neck, cutting off his oxygen until his vision blurs and Ivy is no more than a smudge of green before him.    
  
Jason’s voice pierces the wall of gelatin that is Tim’s consciousness, wobbly and distorted: “Knock it off, Ivy! You’re gonna kill him!”    
  
Is it bad that Tim isn’t all that opposed to death right now? He’d mourn himself, of course. But all he can comprehend now is the way his nerves bleed and every wave sends scorching, shattered glass scraping every inch of skin. He’d be screaming if he could get a breath in.    
  
Ivy steps closer. A bruise has begun to blossom on her cheek, courtesy of a lucky hit from Tim’s staff, but she hardly seems to care. “If it’s any consolation, sweetpea, my experiment wasn’t  _ supposed  _ to be for you. Believe it or not, I have no bones to pick with you or the rest of the bats this week.”    
  
Tim wheezes, tries to suck in a breath, but the act of doing  _ anything _ is getting harder by the second. His lungs burn. His throat aches. Every inch of his being screams in pain, and he would rather be tortured with a cheese grater than suffer through this. Would rather be electrocuted, beaten, and boiled alive if it meant the pain would cease. It’s like nothing Tim has ever experienced in his life, and he’s not even allowed to scream.    
  
Ivy pouts in sympathy. “You know, if you hadn’t attacked me, I might be more inclined to help you out with your little pain situation.” She reaches up so her hand nearly brushes his cheek, but goes no further. It hovers there, taunting him with the relief he wants just out of reach.    
  
She brushes the curve of his jaw with one fingernail, catching a tear on the slope down. “Sadly for you, this is just too entertaining.” She moves a centimeter closer, until Tim can feel her breath on his face, and— _ there.  _   
  
Faster than Ivy can pull back, Tim uses the last of his strength to push aside the pain just long enough for him to flick open the tiny panel hidden in the palm of his glove, disguising the taser he installed earlier. He presses his hand to Ivy’s bare shoulder, and she seizes as the volts rush through her body.    
  
Ivy’s eyes roll back in her head and she slumps to the floor, unconscious. The vines around Tim’s neck loosen and he sucks in a breath, coughing as he too collapses to the ground, hacking and shaking.    
  
“Red, you good?” Jason calls. Tim can’t lift his head to look at him.  _ “Red.  _ Talk to me, man.” He sounds far away.    
  
_ That’s right,  _ Tim thinks.  _ He’s still trapped.  _ It’s almost funny—Tim came here to save them, but now there’s nothing they can do to save Tim. He doesn’t even have the brain capacity to crawl over there, let alone  _ stand _ with the way fire spikes and blazes across every inch of his body.    
  
Tim fades in and out. It’s hard to determine the lapse of time between each sluggish blink because, rather than gradually getting worse like it usually does, the pain remains at a steady eleven. There’s no worse for it to get, and all Tim can do is lie here and suffer.    
  
Somewhere far, far away, Jason yells at someone.    
  
_ Pain.  _   
  
A new voice speaks; more gentle than Jason’s, not as deep. A distant part of Tim feels like he recognizes it.    
  
_ Make it stop.  _   
  
Footsteps approach. Footsteps? Jason and Cass...they’re too far away, Tim could have sworn. Or did he imagine that? Is he actually here right now?    
  
The ceiling blurs above Tim’s head, and he’s got no idea if it’s because of the pain messing with his head or if he’s crying, but there is a good chance it’s both. He wants to curl up on his side and sleep, but he can’t move. Every action sends knives shooting through his veins.    
  
“Tim?” That’s...someone. Tim knows that voice. He’s pretty sure he does.    
  
His eyelids part just enough for him to see Dick—blurry, but Tim would recognize him anywhere—rushing over and dropping to his knees beside him. He yanks Tim’s cowl off, one hand going to his forehead while the other works off Tim’s glove so he can grasp his hand.    
  
“You’re okay,” he’s saying. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”    
  
Tim doesn’t even realize the grating keens are coming from him until they stop—Dick’s touch soothing and drawing the fire out, bit by bit. The absence is like pins and needles, but Tim sighs and lets his eyes droop shut all the way.    
  
“Tim? Tim, look at me. You with me?”    
  
A bead of sweat runs down his temple. “Did you...you got her?”    
  
“Yeah, buddy. We got her.”    
  
Tim nods. “Good. That’s...good.” He doesn’t try to hold on to consciousness the way he did before. Pain and adrenaline things of the past, Tim allows his exhaustion to take over and sinks into the inky blackness.    
  
  


* * *

“You wanna know something, Bruce?”   
  
“Hm?”    
  
“I think I’ve had enough of you sticking me with needles for a while.”    
  
Bruce disposes of the syringe with a snort. He’s still in his gala suit, since he and Damian had to make their exit in a hurry once they got news of the Ivy situation. There are droplets of blood on his sleeves. “Assuming this works, I think that can be arranged.”    
  
There’s irony to be seen in all of this: Here Tim is, sitting on a medical cot in the Batcave—right back where he started the  _ first  _ time Ivy whammied him. And this instance is no exception when it comes to whammying. Tim’s nose is thoroughly broken and throbs with every beat of his pulse. His throat is a mess of purplish bruises, and he’s lucky to be alive.    
  
Yet, miraculously, he feels better than he has in weeks.    
  
“How did you even convince her to give up the antidote?” Jason asks. He’s sitting beside Tim on the cot, nursing his own wounds with one hand on Tim’s shoulder. Ivy was shipped off to Arkham hours ago, and Batman wasted no time singling her out for an interrogation.    
  
Bruce peels off his latex gloves. “It didn’t take long, actually. I’ve got a feeling she genuinely felt guilty about putting you in this condition in the first place.”    
  
“Yeah,” Jason snorts. “And she’s running for commissioner next month, too.”    
  
“You’re just jealous that the villains like me more than you,” Tim says.    
  
“Dude,  _ I  _ was a villain for a while. If anything, I should be the favorite. Is there no camaraderie anymore?”    
  
“Yeah but you weren’t, like, a  _ real  _ villain. If the rogues are villains, then you’re the schoolyard bully who steals candy bars on weekends.”    
  
Jason splutters. “Are you hearing this, B? He’s saying I’m not villainous enough. I put human heads in a  _ duffle bag _ . Don’t I get credit for that?”   
  
Bruce sighs. “You’re villainous enough for anyone, Jason.”    
  
“Hear that, Tim? Suck it.”    
  
Tim won’t lie, he’s zoning in and out of the conversation now. He’s tired to the point of no return,  _ and  _ his nose has begun to bleed again, which Bruce notices. He passes Tim a tissue.    
  
Then Bruce crosses his arms, his squinty, crow’s-footed eyes trained right on Tim. “Before I forget, I don’t think I have to give you the ‘what you did tonight was stupid’ talk, do I?”    
  
Tim tips his head back and presses the tissue to his nose, wincing when the throbbing increases. “No, I think I’ve heard it enough by now. I could make you a script if you want.”    
  
“Good,” Bruce says. “Because it was. Incredibly stupid.”    
  
“Need I remind you that we  _ caught  _ her? You’re welcome.”    
  
“That doesn’t excuse risking your life to do it.”    
  
Tim rolls his eyes, though with the angle his head is at, there’s a good chance Bruce doesn’t see it. “Fine. I promise that the next time someone decides to dose me with Pain Pollen—which I’m trademarking, by the way—I promise not to break into a villain-occupied warehouse by myself and do you all a favor by taking down the bad guy.”    
  
“Thank you,” Bruce says, like the bastard he is.    
  
Tim examines his arm around the area the needle went in, scrutinizing for any sign of a reaction. His skin doesn’t turn green, nor does he feel any different than he should. “How long will this stuff take to work?”    
  
Bruce shrugs, which is about the least-reassuring answer a person can get when discussing their health. “She said it would be fast-acting. If she was telling the truth and this is in fact the cure, it should be chasing out the pollen by now.”    
  
Tim rolls his fingers into a fist, watching the veins shifts in his forearm. “How will I know?”    
  
Bruce looks to Jason. “Jay, would you mind?”    
  
Rather than acquiescing immediately, Jason waits for confirmation from Tim. “It’s okay,” Tim tells him. But his heart is a drum cadence.    
  
Jason drops his arm, severing their contact, and Tim braces himself for the wave that is sure to come. He holds his breath.    
  
A moment passes.    
  
Two.    
  
“Well?” Bruce says. “How do you feel?”    
  
Tim looks down at himself—at his unshaking hands, at the body that he knows should be feeling like it’s being boiled in oil right now. Nerves that should be crackling and blood that should be sizzling. Hurt that should be doing its job and hurting.    
  
Tim doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he lets out a sharp exhale, and the tension in his body releases for the first time in so long he nearly forgot what it was like.    
  
“Good,” he says, high-pitched and airy. “I feel good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ta-daaaaaaaa!!! Thank you for reading, fellers!!!

**Author's Note:**

> I triple dog dare you to comment and tell me your stance on the oxford comma. 
> 
> [Feel free to mosey on down to my Tumblr!](http://sohotthateveryonedied.tumblr.com/)


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